My Jenny

She’s beautiful, with soft, blonde hair and enormous brown eyes that seem to fall out of her head. Her face looks hard and rough at first, a result of her laborious life working in the mountains. But at night, when I am holding her, when sleep fills those cavernous orbs and she rests her head on my chest, she becomes soft and vulnerable. I stare at her, sexual satisfaction weighing my body down, and I know that my purpose in life is to be with her and to protect her. She is my Jenny.

I met her during a country road trip outside Denver with my wife. Somewhere through the winding Rocky Mountains, among the farms and resorts and dense forests, lives my love. I first saw her at work, her solid body effortlessly carrying a load of blankets and tents, doubtless for some clueless tourists who would not appreciate her. Behind the wheel of my car my body tightened, my heart raced, my brain shut out the mindless babble of the woman whose ring I wore on my finger. I made a mental note of all landmarks: the white water tower to the north, the dilapidated stone wall running the south side of the property, the twin Douglas firs looming straight above.

That night after my wife had fallen asleep in our hotel bed, I returned to the farm where I hoped my love would still be. I parked my car down the road, out of sight. As I walked my heart was pounding so loud I could hear my blood echoing in my ears. I snuck over the stone wall and approached the smaller of the two buildings on the property. I silently peeked through the front window and there she was, standing alone and gazing out the window. I couldn’t see another living soul.

I knocked quietly at the window to get her attention. She looked toward me and shook her head. At first I thought she was refusing me, but when she did it again I realized she was motioning toward the door on the other side of the building. I went around, undid the latch and entered. My Jenny and I stared at each other for a short eternity before I couldn’t stand it any longer. Wordlessly, too eager to find a more comfortable place, I took her standing up. I felt more virile and wanted than I had ever felt before.

I returned to see her two nights later, and after returning to Denver I came late every Monday and Thursday night. Every time she was there, waiting and alone. The man she lives with, her boss, somehow does not see her beauty. I can’t understand how he is not drawn in by her sexual magnetism, her scent and her spirit. He treats her as he would a slave or worse.

Although she won’t say it, I know that wants to be taken away. “I can help you,” I tell her. She simply looks at me, her eyes knowing I simply want to help myself.

My wife is not a bad woman. She is conventionally attractive and takes care of the house. She cooks, although not very well. She makes love to me as a wife should. But she behaves as if our life together is common. There is no magic. Even our courtship was conventional. We met at college, had never slept with anyone else and had never had any scandals. We married each other in a simple ceremony at a white church in her hometown, surrounded by supportive family and friends.

I manage to push thoughts of my wife away during my biweekly drives out to the country, but the fear and the guilt are constant companions. Although the life I have with her is boring, I can’t risk losing it without knowing my Jenny would be there if my wife left me. It’s my eleventh visit to the farm and I know I have to talk seriously about our future.

“I don’t know how many more times I can come back here,” I tell her. “If only you would come away with me.”

She doesn’t respond, except for a slight twitch of the ear. A sure sign she’s angry.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that there’s not much I can do. My wife is beginning to suspect an affair and I can’t think of more lies.”

Still no answer.

“And besides, what would we do if your boss came in? I can’t imagine he would take to this very well.”

She stamps her foot and lets out a little grunt of disbelief. I back away slowly, keeping eye contact, hoping she might give me an indication that she wants me to stay. Wants me hold her and love her again. She looks at the ground and kicks a pebble. I start to unbuckle my belt and she looks up with approval. I come to her and stroke her, savoring those blissful pre-copulation moments.

My trousers drop to the ground and I begin to draw her backside toward me when suddenly the barn door slams open. “Get off my donkey, you freak!”

The boss. With no time to grab my clothes, in seconds I am leaping naked over fences and dodging trees, the sound of a firing rifle echoing in my ears. I know I’ll never see my Jenny again.

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